


Love and Obey

by SweetLateJuliet



Series: Images [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voice Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:10:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetLateJuliet/pseuds/SweetLateJuliet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece to the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/938003">Images</a> series. I wanted to give the first two lines of the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/962769">first epilogue</a> some breathing room (no matter how breathless).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Obey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KeeblerMC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeblerMC/gifts).



> _Who has waited very patiently for my Smut Period to commence. Howdy, dear._

By the time we left the Boudoir Beaux-Arts studio, Sherlock had sported some degree of erection for ten straight hours. We didn’t speak on the cab ride home. I didn’t trust myself to say anything suitable for overhearing, and he knew my stance on snogging in cabs. (Mycroft’s drivers are paid well enough to put up with that; garden-variety cabbies aren’t.)

At home, I quick-stepped up the stairs and sank into my chair. Sherlock paused in the doorway, looking confused and very fuckable.

I steeled my nerves.

“Close the door, Sherlock. You need to practise.”

“Practise?”

“Listening. Show me what you’ll do next time I tell you to have a wank.”

I tried for commanding nonchalance, but I’m sure he heard the quaver in my voice. This was new. Like as not he wouldn’t go along.

His eyes – a stormy grey at the moment – searched my face as he shut the door. _Captain,_ I thought, striving for a look of disinterested dominance. _Captain captain captain._

He held my eyes as he sauntered to the sofa and sat. The colour blossoming on his cheeks gave the lie to his steady gaze and casual smirk. “Following orders is not my forte, John.”

“Yes, well, apparently neither is maintaining your peerless brilliance with a raging hard-on. When I say wank, you’d best do it.” I was warming to my theme. “For the Work.”

He unbuttoned his jacket. “Ah. In that case.” He trailed the backs of his fingers lightly down his chest, pausing briefly to caress his nipples through the fabric. The _only_ sense of economy he has is for quantity of shirt material. I felt a sympathetic stirring at my sternum.

“You know how important the Work is to me.” He reached his belt and undid the closures there. “Paramount.” He bit the corner of his lower lip as he dragged his zip slowly down. Then he lifted his hips to free them from trousers and pants. He pushed these down around his thighs and left them bunched there.

Haloed by shirttails, dark hair, and pale flesh, his erect cock claimed a disproportionate share of his body’s blood and melanin. The wetness at the tip caught the light and glistened.

I was halfway out of my chair before I realised it. This was not a sight I usually observed dispassionately from across the room. I sank back down and smiled abashedly. The illusion of power play wouldn’t last, but I very much wanted to watch him bring himself off. And who could really believe I would be anything but in absolute thrall to this man?

He laughed. The sound changed timbre as he circled his left fingers around the base of his cock and pulled slowly upward.

_Breathe, John._

Down, he dragged, and up again. His head fell back a few degrees and his eyes drifted closed. I heard a little rumble of pleasure.

I pressed my right fingers into my thigh, vowing not to touch myself until he was good and going. No goddamn way I was coming first.

Sherlock established a firm, leisurely rhythm with his left hand. He made another moan of enjoyment. Of _not-bored,_ which is a narcotic sound. Then he spoke.

“It wasn’t just the pictures, John.”

I get better answers when I don’t ask the questions. I waited, mesmerised by the movement of his hand.

“I’ve managed my arousal for years. Naked bodies, there’s nothing intrinsically distracting about them.”

He drew his foreskin back the rest of the way. I could feel my tongue straining toward the slick red head now gloriously exposed. I dug my fingers harder into my thigh and the arm of the chair.

“Breasts and full hips, defined abdominals , the swell in a pair of briefs… Those photos were all just cunning anatomical renderings.”

 _Cunning anatomy yourself,_ groused the part of my brain being denied a hand on my dick.

“The effect is in the mind. Pervasive sentiment, really, and you know how I feel about that.”

He gripped himself tighter and quickened his pace. He reached his right hand down to massage his balls.

I gave in and followed along with my own hand.

“It was you, John.”

For all the ways he’s unfathomable, it’s surprisingly easy to read his sexual feeling based on the number of _o_ ’s and _h_ ’s he uses in my name. There were at least three of each now.

“The studio, the pictures, the sets, and you right there in it all… John, I’m excellent at what I do because I see things no one else does.”

His stroking and kneading were becoming urgent.

“So just imagine how vividly I could see you there. Can you understand?

“I saw you next to that bed clear as truth pushing up your shirtsleeves. Your forearms are magnificent, John.

“I saw you turning away from the camera, away from me, to strip off your shirt.

“I saw the jut of your scapulae, and the unconscious way you rotate your left shoulder when the air first hits it.

“I saw you look back over your shoulder and smile.

“And then, John, I saw you put your hands on the bed, and arch your back concave…”

His hands slowed. Lord help me, mine did not.

He brought his right hand out from between his legs. With the pad of his long thumb, he touched the liquid beaded at the head of his cock. He slicked it around with small movements, then pulled the finger up and away. For one millimetre, three, five, fingertip and cock remained joined by a sticky thin thread. Finally the connection snapped. There was nothing to hear, especially over my panting, but Jesus I felt it.

“And you rocked your hips…”

His eyes flicked up to mine. His pupils were so dilated it looked like he’d just come up from the cellar. His left hand pulled up, slowly, then down.

“An invitation.”

He lifted his right hand to his mouth and touched the thumb to his lower lip. Then he plunged it in and sucked.

An electrical storm exploded in my chest and sparked out to my groin, my fingertips, my hair. I rubbed harder through the coarse cloth of my jeans. “Sherlock, you don’t have to… Just do…” My voice was strangled and my mind couldn’t follow the thought all the way through. I’d meant, you don’t have to put on a show.

His observance verging on clairvoyance is useful when I’m keyed up beyond all subject-verb construction. The pink stain on his cheeks spread lazily to the opening at his collar. His voice was low and liquid rough. “I’m not… I like… The taste arouses me, John.”

 _Oh fuck fuck fuck._ I’d meant to watch him, direct him, and instead I was going to come in my pants like an overstimulated teenager.

He licked more fingers and his palm, then brought his right hand back down to rub the head of his cock as his left hand regained speed.

“When you did that, when you rocked your hips, I could see it all. The swell of your buttocks under all that cloth, the cleft of your… your arse… you pulling the hemispheres apart. The small dark pucker you’d expose for me… you straining backward, rolling up onto your metatarsals to give me better access… John, it was so real.”

I believed him. His blazing eyes – yes, I believed they could see anything. Certainly they couldn’t miss what he was doing to me now.

“Your whole body was undulating, wanting, wanting, whatever I would give, fingers or cock or tongue…”

My cock throbbed inside my jeans. I abandoned all friction in order to free it. Bloody little button, goddamn _tiny_ zip pull –

“Wait, John, don’t,” he moaned. At least eight central letters in my name now. “Please, let me, after… after…” His left hand moved swift and strong. His right flitted about, rendering aid as necessary: a rake through his curls, a twist of a nipple, a firm press to his perineum. I could see the tendons in his neck. Everything about him was tense and _so close._

“After what?” I asked thickly, forcing my hands to the arms of my chair. My hips maintained their own rhythm.

“Ah,” he breathed, “after I come for you, John, after you watch me –” He broke off and his whole body stiffened, the only motion the relentless up-and-down of his left hand. He grunted, low and feral. _“John.”_ Then his cock twitched visibly and he came, spurt after energetic spurt spilling onto his hand. “John,” he gasped, “John, _John!_ ”

“John.” He sighed, hand slowing and muscles unfurling. “John.” Gradually his body unwound and my name softened back to four well-worn letters.

“You see, love?” I asked. No quaver in my voice now, but I could hear the new edge of raw need. “Don’t you feel better? I only want to help with the Work. You’ll do as I say next time?”

Sherlock smiled brightly, slowly. “Oh yes, I had already worked out the necessity.” He raised his left hand to his mouth and swiped it with the flat of his tongue. He swallowed showily then wiped the hand clean on his shirt. I felt dizzy with lust.

He slid off the couch onto his hands and knees and began crawling toward me, hobbled by the trousers at his knees. “Thank you, John, for helping with the Work.”

Six letters in my name again. And absolutely no question who was in control now. I thrust my hips in invitation or to shorten the distance, and I did my best to fix this picture of him in my mind. Dishevelled curls, open collar, luminous pale skin, heated cheeks, eyes now blue shot through with gold… My most fervent prayer then was for him to get his teasing hands on my bloody body already, but my second was that somehow he would consent to show this Sherlock to the photographers at Boudoir Beaux-Arts and preserve it for me forever.

He put his hands on my knees and pushed them slowly up my thighs, searching my face all the while. He cocked his head to the side and his smile grew. _Perhaps there’s hope for it,_ was my last thought formed of words as his hands met between my legs.


End file.
